Quietus
by A Fire in the Attic
Summary: Qui'et'us: noun. 1. Final settlement. 2. Death. One Shot


A/N: Warning: this may seem like Royce is just rambling. But he's scared, so in a sense, he _is_ rambling - but there's a purpose to it. If you thought you were dying, wouldn't your mind be racing, thinking of a million possibilities?

**Disclaimer**: I do not own Twilight or the characters thereof. I don't own this scene. The only thing I vaguely own is the way I'm portraying it. Also please note that some of the specifics were never stated in the books, ie the door, how she got the dress, whether or not she returned it, etc.

* * *

Quietus: Qui'et'us. _noun_. 1. Final settlement. 2. Death.

* * *

Royce couldn't believe he was doing this. Why was he here, sitting in a room with such thick walls and no windows? The door, too, was a foot thick. Most disturbingly, he sat alone, the barren room only reminding him of this.

His friends were dead. Picked off one by one.

But that didn't mean he was next, right? That was foolish…he had no reason to imagine that this was so, and yet here he was, hiding from this murderer.

Public appearance was the last thing he was worried about. He had reason enough to be in mourning, hidden from the world. He'd lost his fiancée only four months ago, and his friends as well, albeit more recently. He wasn't worried about what his parents thought.

Was it vain to suppose that the murderer would come for him next?

Was it crazy to wonder if Rose had anything to do with it? Did someone know that he and his friends had caused her death? Were they after him? The friends who'd died, who'd been _murdered_, they'd all been there on _that _night.

He tried to avoid thoughts of Rosalie. He regretted leaving her to die—after all, he lost his wife-to-be. He hadn't loved her, but she hadn't been bad to look at. They would have made a great couple. At the same time, his shame for leaving her there prevented him from telling anyone.

If his instincts were correct, that the murderer was after him next…well, then. He'd take the secret to the grave, just as his friends and fiancée had.

But the murderer wasn't after him. Of course not.

Anxiously, he glanced at his stopwatch. He didn't know why it mattered; he wasn't coming out anytime soon. But time seemed like a constant, and with everything changing so quickly in such a small matter of time, he desperately _needed _that constant.

He shouldn't have left her to die. He didn't regret the rape so much; after all, they were set to be married, but the fact that she was dead...that was the worst. He could have at least kept her alive—it wasn't like she was bad for sexual purposes.

He shouldn't have been drinking. None of this would have happened.

He had no control when he was drinking. Everyone _knew _that. Surely they could understand. He never meant to kill Rose. Never. It was a mistake, a stupid mistake. He wanted to cry.

He picked up his bottle of vodka, and took a sip without thinking.

Then he glanced at it, screamed, and threw it against the wall. He didn't care how calm it made him. None of that mattered.

_If I hadn't, she'd be alive. If she was alive, I wouldn't be in this mess...if..._

He let out a shuddering sob. He was going to die, and it was all because of the stupid alcohol...

He wished he'd never met Rose. She was the real cause of this, not the alcohol. If he'd never met her, he wouldn't have been tempted to rape her. He wouldn't have killed her, and the murderer wouldn't be after him. And what if she wasn't really dead? They'd never found a body... The thought had never before crossed his mind, at least, not the bit about her being alive. Mostly, he'd been content that there was no evidence to be used against he or his friends.

He collapsed to the floor, pressing his face against the smooth concrete. The cool surface brought brief rationality. He should calm down. Nothing was going to happen. He could just stay here for awhile and gain some composure. Then he could go home to his mother, and everything would be fine.

And Rose was _dead_. Of course. He knew that—the injuries were terminal. There was no way she was alive after all of that..._blood_... Someone had merely picked her up afterward.

But who? And where did they put the body?

There was a short, strangled cry from outside the door, and a different shout of horror. His heartbeat began to accelerate, beating so fast and hard it _hurt _his chest.

_He's here. The murderer is here, and I'm going to die. _

There was a sickening snap of bones from outside the door and Royce began hyperventilating.

A short scream sounded, and then abruptly choked off, as another snap echoed from behind the door.

And then, the door burst into a thousand splinters, spewing across the room dramatically, revealing...

Rosalie, more harshly beautiful then before with glowing red eyes, wearing her wedding dress.

And of course, his only though was, _So that's where the dress had gone._ Rosalie's mother had mentioned that it had abruptly vanished one day, without a trace of evidence left behind.

Of course Rosalie wanted it.

Silently, her eyes scanned the room, at last coming to rest on him. A cruel smile lifted her lips, and she laughed in amusement. "Hiding, Royce? Doesn't seem very manly." Abruptly, the smile vanished, a hard frown replacing it without warning. "But neither did hurting me. Neither did leaving me to die."

She was very suddenly in front of him. She leaned down and grabbed his throat, a look of pure agony scrawled across her face. "I had so much potential! You ripped it away. You stole the life I could have had. Did you think I'd be a bad wife? Look at me now, dammit! Look at me!" She lifted him from the floor, holding him above her head and pressing him against the wall.

Horrified, he did as she asked, even as he struggled for breath. He didn't know what was wrong. She was still one of the most beautiful women he'd ever seen. Possibly the _most _beautiful. And so strong—impossibly so. But the lack of oxygen was making it difficult for him to process her impossible beauty and strength, so he merely accepted it.

"You thought I was dead, right?" she asked, nostrils flaring, throwing him down onto the ground with more force than he would have thought possible. "Oh, I'm dead. I'm _very _dead."

He lay crumpled on the floor, gasping for air. That throw had possibly been enough to shatter his bones. Such excruciating agony. He coughed and retched, bile rising in his throat. What was she doing here? She was dead. This was a dream. None of this had happened—maybe she was alive, and his friends were, too. He was set to be married soon, and they'd have two children, little blond angels. A boy and a girl, named Royce the third, and Lillian.

She crouched next to him, leaning down close. "Who did you think you were?" She was gone almost instantaneously, pacing around the room. "I'm not human, you know," she announced. "I envy your humanity, the small scraps of it that you have left."

He didn't acknowledge the insult; instead he tried to figure out what she was, if not human. Definitely a dream, he acknowledged.

But he knew she wasn't human. At least, not in this dream. Humans didn't have red eyes, and they didn't cause doors to explode. They didn't lift grown men off of the ground with one arm, and they didn't shatter bones by throwing them. They didn't _have _the strength to throw men.

She shook her head, a savage smile curling her lips backward. "You made me like this." She stopped walking. "I can't even eat human food." She let out a mirthless laugh. "Well, I can. Rather, I eat food that is human."

A vulnerable look crossed her hardened features. "But I won't. I didn't kill your friends that way. I didn't kill your guards that way." The unfeeling look returned to her face. "I won't let your blood pass my lips. Oh, no. I won't be nearly as monstrous as _you _and your so-called friends."

He choked, the bile filling his mouth again. "That's not—we didn't—"

"Didn't devour me? Maybe not physically. But you ate the humanity out of me. You made it happen!"

She laughed cruelly. "Your friends told me where you were, you know. Before the last one died, he squealed. Not that I needed it, but he was very willing to bargain out of his death. But it didn't work; you know that. And it won't work for _you_, either."

Brutally, she reached for him. "You're going to die, just as I did. But your death will be quicker and much less painful..." The barbaric smile returned. "Aren't I merciful?"

He closed his eyes and sucked in a deep breath. He screamed as loud as he could, but to no avail. It's not a dream, he realized. "Rosie, please, no! I didn't mean to! I didn't—"

"Don't call me that!" she snarled, slapping him. "Shut up! Shut up. You didn't mean to...who cares? You did it. You have to pay, you have to, you—" She growled and grabbed his neck. "You _have _to die!"

"No—" he gasped.

* * *

A sickening snap echoed through the room, and Rosalie Hale dropped a lifeless form onto the floor. A pout creased her face as she surveyed the room. She clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth. "Messy, messy," she murmured. She pushed her honey blond hair over her shoulders and gazed serenely down at Royce King, the second.

She kicked him gently, though still with enough force to crush bones. "Don't know my own strength," she muttered to herself. Then she giggle morbidly. "Poor, poor Royce."

She stopped laughing. "Poor me."

Rosalie looked down at herself, observing almost indifferently the white gown she wore. She would return it to her mother—she owed her that much. Without thinking, she began undressing, and pulled the dress off.

There she stood, naked. She frowned. What to wear?

Her eyes fell on Royce again. She smirked.

* * *

"Oh!"

Rosalie stood outside of the open window, not breathing. She didn't want to kill her mother, even if she barely remembered her. So no breathing.

It had taken her hours to find her mother's home, even as she darted through the city at vampire speed, escaping notice. But she had found it. Climbing through the window was easy enough, as was finding her old room. She remembered the smell, though it was multiplied by a thousand times now. The room was filled with the smell of roses, apparently the flower of choice when the people came calling to pay their respects. Even four months after her disappearance, they brought flowers still.

She had laid the dress out on her bed, hoping that someone would find it. Luck had been on her side. It seemed that her father came into her room everyday after dinner to sit. When he'd seen the dress on the bed, he'd rushed to get his wife, and returned just as swiftly.

Not quite so swift as Rosalie herself, of course.

Rosalie pushed herself out of the shadows and onto the empty and dark streets. She stood outside of her old home for a moment, not caring about how odd she looked in a man's clothing. She'd taken Royce's clothes, deciding that since he'd left her naked, she'd return the favor. The only thing that bothered her was that the clothing smelled like him…a scent she found vulgar with her heightened sense of smell.

She sucked in a breath, only barely tasting humanity on the air, for which she was grateful. She didn't want to leave her mother; she had loved her. But then, she had too.

"I'm sorry, Mother," she whispered. "But your world can't hold me anymore."

And then, she turned and ran.

* * *

A/N: The title was chosen to represent both that Rose had settled the issue with Royce and that she wouldn't return to her old world, along with Royce's death.  
Speaking of hyperventilating, did anyone else freak out with the New Moon trailer? I'm so excited for this movie; it's my favorite of the series. (And, yes, I'm Team Edward.)  
It's my birthday, so pretty please review. It's like a birthday present...I don't even care if you flame. Just please review. :D  
By the way, did you know you can't choose Royce as a main character? You can choose every freaking vampire ever mentioned in Breaking Dawn, but not Royce. And it seems like he's just as important...


End file.
